When my mother and her mother are enchanting the world goes right for a very long time.

When my mother and her mother make emblems-after all we are descended from the first pope-and are not overly proud about it, but merely properly pleased, we feel closer to God, as if we had privilege before others, though deep down are sad, because we know there is no truth to that.

When my mother and her mother make luscious cakes that dance on air, the world seems bearable after all.

When my mother and her mother make joyous pizzellas, the matrix that joins each of the family together becomes more than a symbol, legend, or story, it makes a pathway, mysterious and hard as butter.

When my mother and her mother call out “scungele,” or “calamari,” or “biscotti,” or “pizza” or “funculo,” then I know that there is no chance to be other than I am.

When my mother and her mother crawl on their knuckles away from their grave I begin the slow digging of my own-believing I can separate myself in death.

When my mother and her mother lose their teeth, their tongues fall into the wishing well, their words will follow me like a hungry stray who smells meat.

When my mother and her mother say that I am their daughter I wonder whose language they speak, and know that somewhere I must understand that this shall never change.

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